


One for sorrow

by Marva



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, F/M, Other, POV First Person, POV John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-01-08
Packaged: 2018-01-08 00:37:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1126289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marva/pseuds/Marva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I once had a flatmate who was a magician.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One for sorrow

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this fic before the airing of series 3. Since then it became slightly AU. 
> 
> Thanks to my patient beta-reader C.

I once had a flatmate who was a magician. He was a true sorcerer, not one of those frauds who need to distract the audience’s attraction with fancy curtains and glitter and extravagant hand movements while they secretly pull out cards from their sleeves. No, he casted the spells in his mind, hidden by his forehead. There were no tricks involved, no traps, no false bottoms or red herrings, just the magic. He did not perform on stage, but he approached the people directly to cast his magic, revealing every little secret like a clairvoyant. But on contrary to those show wizards, people did not like him. They prefer the type of magic which does not interfere with their lives, about which they know that it is not real. For one moment they want to believe that the rabbit is truly pulled out of the top hat, but deep inside they seek for assurance that it is nothing more than a mere conjuring trick. 

That magician’s name was Sherlock and it was his name until he worked his last spell, the spell that made us both crush. I am a soldier. I braved all kinds of hindrances and dangers, the heat of the Afghan desert, the cold and loneliness in those nights, the sight of bowels swelling from my comrades’ bellies, their yells. All of these I defied with ease but the one thing I could not stand up to was Sherlock the magician, my flatmate, my friend, the best and the worst man I ever knew. To Sherlock Holmes and his magic charms. There is so much difficulty in describing what he was to me exactly as he was the one who pulled the strings, who made me think, see and feel like I never was capable of before. I was the one who he used to exert his magic, to make it visible and apparent for the whole world. And for me. I want to believe that it was for me mostly, but how can you be sure if someone aggregates all the power in him while the other one is only destined to reflect his splendour? 

Some of the regulars in Afghanistan who had served in other parts of the world before told me about Voodoo priests who they had encountered in West Africa or in the Caribbean. They poison their victims, making everyone believe they are dead only to resurrect them from the grave, mere zombies compliant to their will. I think Sherlock is one of those Voodoo priests, but he sacrificed himself on that building, falling towards the adamant ground. He was the magician again, the one who deceived the audience, the sacrifice, the one who was mourned and the one who, later, much later, almost too late, rose from the dead again. There is never just one layer with Sherlock.

But I had found love again. There was magic involved, too, but its colour was different. These were not the overwhelmingly piercing shades of Sherlock, full of excitement and danger. This magic was more like a painting that hangs on a kitchen wall, not visible for your eye anymore after some time, but it sinks into your unconsciousness, evoking a cold void if taken away one day and sometimes, in one of those rare moments of epiphany, you sit down and truly appreciate its beauty, its warm dye which almost blends with the surrounding wall, which makes the kitchen a unique place: your home. This love was Mary and there is something utterly innocent in this name, something virginal. It is as if she were the maiden on the magician’s table, ready to be sacrificed for the people’s enjoyment, only to come back seconds later, fully alive and without a single scratch.   
It is the irony of fate that he is alive and she is dead. He, who threw himself from that building, he sleeps here in this room in his bed, the very picture of health. And she, who was my ground, solid as a rock, she is gone. I might sit here the whole night and maybe all of the following ones trying to find sense in my swirling head. 

I think he killed her. He did not steer that vehicle which took her life in a split second, but there must be some kind of substitution in a cosmic connection: he traded her soul against his own. I do not know how but it is the only implication I can draw right now and I might never forgive him. I watch this man wrapped in the blanket in the bed. Is he really Sherlock? Presumably. But is he the same? There are some new wrinkles drawn in his alabaster skin. He still has his magic. He bewitched me before, when he appeared from nowhere. That is why I now watch over his sleep while I should grieve for my wife. I guard him because he could vanish into thin air again and I will guard over him every single second of my life if I let him cast his spell on me. I will lose myself in him once more. The only way out is to leave. My bags are packed and all words are said. It is time to make a decision.

_Now._


End file.
